


The Prize

by tenaya



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: First Meetings, M/M, Non Consensual, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1997-09-01
Updated: 1997-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-21 13:44:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenaya/pseuds/tenaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kronos and Silas discover a fellow Immortal in dire straits.  Immediately discerning what a prize he is, Kronos sets about recruiting him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prize

# THE PRIZE

  


## by Tenaya

Two men on horseback rode through the barren land, carefully picking their way amongst the rocky soil. The quiet was complete. No other living thing stirred, the land too inhospitable to sustain even the most hardy forms of life. They traveled light, each one carrying a thick, wool cloak for warmth, a few skins of water and a crude bag filled with dried meat.

The smaller of the two led the way. By his side hung a long sword, its thick, sharp blade a glittering testament to the high quality bronze from which it was forged. It was the very latest in weaponry and many of the men they encountered had never seen anything like it. It gave the warriors an edge they were keen to take advantage of.

The larger man also had a sword, but it was of poorer quality and tended to bend from the force of the blows he was capable of delivering. A large axe with an obsidian head was his preferred weapon and it was strapped to his back. It was, in fact, sharper than either of the swords and the fighter had used it many times with deadly result.

The leader, Kronos, reined his horse to a stop as they crested a hillock, allowing the creature to blow off from its exertion. He carefully studied the wide depression below and the oasis it contained — complete with date palms and a freshwater well. A half–dozen tents and yurts lay scattered about, housing enough for perhaps twenty souls. It was very peaceful…and very vulnerable to attack. He nodded in satisfaction, pleased by the lack of guards or fortifications. Turning, he grinned ferally at Silas, and felt his heartbeat quicken with anticipation at the coming raid.

His hand had gripped his sword hilt when, through the still, cool afternoon, an agonized scream drifted up from one of the tents below. Strangely, the inhabitants carried on with their activities as if they had heard nothing. Kronos paused, puzzled by the unusual behavior; a cry of pain like that should have caused some agitation. Kronos did not like mysteries; they had an unpleasant way of fouling up what otherwise would have been a successful plan. He shifted in his saddle and glanced speculatively at the big Immortal who rode beside him.

Taking a long draught of water, Silas wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked expectantly at Kronos, awaiting whatever decision his leader would make.

"It seems that the screams of the dying are common here," Kronos said seriously. "Come, Brother; let us find the reason why before we fill the air with more of them."

Silas nodded at the change in plans, nudging his horse down the slope, and Kronos smiled the big man's way. Their normal routine was to ride into a small, isolated community like this with their swords swinging, and once everyone was dead they would take what they needed and stay as long as they liked. But Silas was a dependable one; if he was surprised that Kronos wanted to talk to these mortals, he neither showed it nor complained.

It wasn't long before they were resting in the shade of the trees while their horses were attended to. A wooden bowl laden with chunks of succulent roast goat, bread and fruit was handed to Kronos and he eased down to sit beside Silas on the downed trunk of a palm tree. He twisted slightly to his left until the area of the camp that was behind Silas came into full view then sniffed cautiously at the meat. He watched as Silas eagerly reached for a second piece of goat, his partner's enthusiastic expression a fair indicator that the taste would at least be passible. But, however tasty the meal was, it was not worth the price that the villagers had demanded for it — Kronos' prized jeweled dagger. Silas had chuckled as Kronos handed his knife over; he knew the big Immortal was remembering the particularly painful way Kronos had killed the last mortal who had sought to separate him from his favorite dagger. Amused, he glanced at Silas, enjoying the shared secret that all who lived here — including the impertinent man who sold them their meal — would soon be dead.

A hoarse, high–pitched scream rent the air and was cut off suddenly and completely. Kronos motioned toward the tent the cry had come from. "What goes on in there? Is this how you treat travelers who take your water without payment?"

The water man smiled, displaying a set of rotting teeth. He shook his head and said, "No; the well provides only a meager living for my master. What is in that tent is a prize that has made my master very wealthy."

"Was. Whoever he was, he is dead now," Kronos dismissed.

The water man smiled. "For the moment, yes."

A chill came over Kronos at those words, the icy dread settling like lead in his gut and groin. From the corner of his eye, Kronos could see Silas frown and look towards him, but he ignored the reaction. He, too, felt a sudden suspicion of the prisoner's identity: an Immortal who had been unfortunate enough to be discovered for what he was. As his imagination leaped to supply the details of what the water man's words implied, a flush of indignation swept through him. Immortals were as gods, and village trash like these lived for the sole purpose of either worshiping Immortals as the deities they were, or experiencing the honor of being killed by them; nothing else was acceptable. A grim determination to uncover their secret settled over him.

"The dead can not come back to life," he scoffed, baiting the man into continuing. "There is no more profit to be made off of that one."

"You are wrong, for inside the tent there is a creature that looks like a man, with skin as pale as yours." The water man's eyes shone as he warmed to his story, oft–repeated, if Kronos was any judge. "He was captured on a raid to the far north when it was found he would not stay dead. No matter how you kill him, he returns to life, whole of skin. Some say he is the bastard–child from the mating of the sky spirits with a woman, for when his skin is cut or his bones broken, blue lightning comes from within and he is healed. He was sold to my master by some traders who passed through here last summer."

It was winter now. Taken as spoils from a very distant land and transported here, the man had to have been in captivity for at least a year, perhaps longer. Tortured by frequent killings, Kronos doubted there would be much left of the man's sanity by this time. Perhaps a merciful beheading for the Quickening would be the best that could be salvaged from this — after Kronos avenged the unfortunate Immortal by destroying the entire village, of course.

Kronos took another bite of goat meat and shook his head disbelievingly. "A man who won't stay dead? Do you take us for fools? There is no such thing."

The water man leaned forward, his gaze resting greedily on the great bronze sword that Kronos had propped beside him. "There is! And for a price, you can see such a marvel. In truth, you can do whatever you want to him," he tempted, leering suggestively.

It was to be expected, but Kronos' anger increased at this further revelation. An Immortal the plaything of mortal dogs? All who had heard of this outrage must die. Noticeably cooler, he still pretended interest as he asked, "Anything I want?"

The man nodded. "In return for that sword, my master would let you and your companion spend the night with the barbarian. Think of it: a man you can kill repeatedly — and the freedom to do whatever else you desire to him."

"An offer of sex with a dead slave? I bed only the living," he said disgustedly, as he idly considered if he was of a mind to rape this irritating oaf before he killed him. He discarded the notion; the man smelt like a pig and would probably squeal like one, too.

The water man laughed. "Oh, he will be plenty lively for your riding, Horseman. Trust me, I have tried him myself though it cost me two goats!"

Maybe he would rape him after all, Kronos thought as the disdain he felt for this man grew stronger with every word he heard. The thought of an Immortal like himself held prisoner for the amusement and pleasure of these desert scum caused his stomach to sour. He looked to Silas and saw the desire for action barely held in check. Kronos shook his head slightly.

Turning back to the water man, he smiled. "Worth two goats," he said, trying to sound impressed. "That is hard to believe, but now I'm curious." Pretending to come to a decision, Kronos said, "I will make you a deal: my sword for a night with such a man." But when the water man reached to take the weapon, Kronos gripped his arm and held it fast. "After," he growled, pushing the man away. "You may have the sword _afterwards_ — in the morning — once I know that all your claims are true. Then you will have payment."

"Be prepared to leave here no longer armed, Horseman. You will find my words true, and the night one you will remember for the rest of your life." The water man laughed at his own words as he stood up. "Wait here."

A smart man would have looked into Kronos' face and fled at what he saw there, but the oblivious water man had already turned toward the tent. Kronos leaned towards Silas. "He's mine," he hissed through clenched teeth.

Silas nodded, his smile glinting with eager anticipation. "I look forward to the screams you take from him, Brother."

An hour later, the water man led them into the tent, bowed before his chieftain and left. The leader was perhaps forty years old, olive skinned, his flesh soft and without definition. Greedy and fatuous, he looked the two horsemen over with contempt. His eyes lingered on the sword that hung at Kronos' side. He nodded at the weapon and glanced up at Kronos.

"You will give me that sword for a night with my slave?"

"Let me see him first. If he is someone I wish to use, yes; I promise you my sword."

"Then come." He swept aside a curtain and motioned them inside. "Come see the barbarian that cannot die," he announced grandly.

The faint sensation that warned an Immortal was near swelled powerfully as Kronos stepped into the room, and his nose wrinkled in disgust as the overwhelming odors of blood and urine enveloped him. He gazed down at a sight that both angered and excited him. Angered because it was an Immortal like himself who had been caught and tortured, and excited because before him was a display that could have been conjured up out of his own dark fantasies.

There, tied facing the ground was the camp's prize. His pale skin was marked by faded blue decorations that swirled across his naked, lean body, their patterns frequently interrupted by the rusted color of old bloodstains. Thick leather strips, perhaps a span wide, were laced tightly to each forearm and ankle. Heavy chains ran from these straps to four stakes with enough slack to allow the captive limited movement.

The half–starved prisoner tensed as he felt Kronos' presence. Haggardly, he pushed himself up onto his elbows and turned his head to stare at the horseman. Hazel eyes regarded Kronos without emotion through the tangled, long, dark hair that obscured much of his face and he waited, muscles taut.

Kronos moved forward one pace, intrigued by the lack of fear or obvious insanity in the man. "What is his name?" he asked of the chieftain, his eyes still locked on the captive.

"His name is 'slave,'" the chieftain answered impatiently.

"Does he speak our tongue?" Kronos persisted.

"I've beat a few words into him. He is a barbarian and too stupid to learn more than that."

Because he was watching carefully, Kronos saw the captive's eyes flick over to glare at the chieftain, and he saw through the mask of fallen hair a look of pure hatred burn from their dark depths. Yes, there was someone too stupid here, but it wasn't the barbarian. Kronos chuckled with delight at such a find.

The chieftain made an impatient noise. "You've looked long enough, Horseman. What is your decision? Do you like what you see?"

"Oh, yes," Kronos answered, grinning when the captive jerked his attention back to Kronos. Even thoroughly restrained and tortured for months, this Immortal was still more alert than the idiot who ruled the oasis. "I do like what I see," he purred. Without turning, he commanded, "Take him!" He did not even need to turn around to know that Silas now had the chieftain under control. Instead, he watched the captive's expression widen with the barest hint of surprise and worry.

Paying no attention to the worthless threats the chieftain was throwing at him, Kronos sauntered closer until he towered above the tense captive. Lazily, he placed a foot to either side of the man's hips, straddling him while he drew his sword, brandishing it, making sure the Immortal could see the weapon was out. He sank to his knees and let the cold blade rest against the bony shoulder. Leaning forward, Kronos allowed his free hand to roam up the the smooth skin of the captive's back. His fingers threaded their way beneath the mass of dark hair and swept it aside, only to discover another thick band of leather buckled about the neck with a short, braided cord attached.

"Leashed, too. I wonder what it is about you that makes your owner so afraid?" he whispered admiringly. Kronos edged lower until he was even with the Immortal's face. Letting the point of his sword rest under the chin, he used the weapon as a lever, tipping the face up to get a better look. The features were fine and even, the skin unblemished save for the curious thin streaks of blue dye that strayed unevenly across it. By any standard, the man was attractive. Kronos let the sword tip bite deeper and finally, he saw fear in the blue–dyed face. Kronos smiled. This one feared beheading, the true death; Kronos would be able to use that fear to intimidate and dominate him.

Closing his eyes, Kronos let his head rest against the other's as he buried his face in the wild tangle of hair. He sucked in a deep breath, inhaling the savory aroma of salt and body oils that were particular to this man. Beneath the pungent odors that would disappear with a bath, there was something else, a faint musk that reminded Kronos of a place long–forgotten, a distant woodland, primal and untouched that he had roamed when he was young. The haunting familiarity tantalized him and, needing more, he pressed himself down hard against the naked body. Nuzzling about until he found an ear, he used his teeth and tongue to nibble and taste. The body pinned beneath him swayed slightly as it took in a quick, deep, apprehensive breath, but otherwise remained still. Kronos marveled at such coolness; this Immortal did not panic easily, if at all. How very rare.

Kronos let his sword slip down the shoulder and skim across the arm. When the edge of the weapon encountered the knot where the chain was sewn onto the leather arm guard, he shifted the blade until the sharp edge was worked beneath it. With a strong slice, the sword cleaved though the chain's binding. Quickly shifting about, he freed the other arm then stood and backed away.

The blue–faced Immortal twisted about until he could peer over his shoulder at Kronos. The horseman let him see his interest as he swept his gaze up the long legs that were still tied to the stakes. Splayed wide open like that, the firm, muscular ass seemed to beg to be taken, but now was not the time. Kronos, his desire intense, licked his lips and looked back at the captive. The bound Immortal saw the hunger there and accepted it. Kronos had a sudden, fleeting insight that this one was well familiar with being desired and knew how to use it to his best advantage. What a challenge he would be if Kronos could convince him to ride willingly beside him. The man was obviously intelligent, clever, strong of will and possessed courage. He would make a fine addition, bringing his strengths to the group while supplying Kronos with a more personal challenge in the night.

Decisively, Kronos bent down and cut away the remaining bindings. Straightening up, he held out his hand, offering it to the man at his feet. There was only a second's pause before the captive's long–fingered hand gripped Kronos' arm. With a smooth movement, Kronos pulled the now freed man to his feet and they stared measuringly at each other.

Impressed by the man's confidence and apparent shrewdness, Kronos stepped back and jammed his sword into the soft sand between them and waited. He watched, eager to see just what this Immortal would do now that he was free and a weapon was available. Who would he turn on? What were his priorities?

The barbarian froze, sensing the test. The quick, hazel eyes flicked down to the weapon then back to Kronos as he tried to discern his options. Slowly, he turned towards the chieftain and his eyes narrowed. When the Immortal looked back to Kronos, the head was held high and his breathing had deepened. Though he was still wary, there was now an unspoken question hanging in the air between them — a request for permission to act.

Kronos could not have been more pleased. "Yes," he urged, nodding his head with approval. "Take it."

The chieftain, suddenly aware of his danger, began to shout for his men.

With a quick, fluid move, the barbarian swept up the sword and strode over to the chieftain. He hesitated as he glanced at Silas, but the big man only grinned approvingly. Reassured by what he saw there, he turned his attention to his former tormentor. Staring into the chieftain's eyes, he hefted the weapon to find its balance then struck, quickly and violently, thrusting the sword deep into the man's stomach. Taking the hilt with both hands, he jerked upwards, ignoring the agonized screams of pain and fright, his eyes filled with undiluted fury.

"You like that, don't you?" he mocked, obviously repeating one of the phrases the chieftain had used with some frequency on him. "Bastard!" he added, the word heavily accented, but understandable.

A few armed men ran into the room to assist their leader. Kronos recognized one of them as the water man and ran eagerly towards him. Even unarmed, in a few moves he reclaimed his dagger and thrust it deep into the man's side. Keeping eye contact, he jerked the blade up, cutting the major vessels in the liver. His smile was full of satisfaction as he inflicted the now fatal wound. The pig would take a few hours to bleed to death, allowing Kronos the opportunity to return to him at his leisure for some further amusement if it suited him. Meanwhile, Silas easily dispatched the other two men and stood ready.

The skirmish over, they turned back and saw the barbarian had his former tormentor on the ground. Using the chieftain's own dagger, he had sliced open the man's kaftan and with one cut, had emasculated him. He held up the genitals then shoved them into the man's screaming mouth. "You suck them now!" he ordered coldly.

Picking up Kronos' sword, he stood then and looked disgustedly at the bleeding and dying man. Triumphant, he turned and faced the other two Immortals as tremors coursed through his slender body, his nostrils flaring from the satisfaction of long–awaited revenge.

Kronos grinned at the barbarian, but spoke to his partner. "See, Silas? That is a proper revenge; make the death fit the life."

Stepping back, he pushed the curtain open and waited. "Come. You have more work to do," he coaxed. "Join us outside. Let us help you clean out this nest of rats. Surely there are more out there who have hurt you."

With one last look to Kronos, the former captive took a firmer grip on the sword and strode past him into the daylight.

In an astonishingly short time, the barbarian had dispatched most of the inhabitants, leaving the few that fled from him for the horsemen to take.

* * * * *

When the silence was complete, Kronos carefully approached the barbarian, motioning Silas to come up on his other side. The former captive leaned against the well, sword in one hand, water ladle in the other. He drank a long time, retched, and then drank again, but this time forcing himself to go slower. When Kronos finally came within sword range, the newly–freed Immortal turned and faced him warily, the great bronze sword held casually ready in front of him.

Intent on establishing a friendly rapport, Kronos gestured gracefully to himself. "I am Kronos. You are…?"

The man stared back impassively. Just when Kronos had nearly given up on an answer, the barbarian spoke. "Methos," he said with a slight nodding twist to the head.

"Methos…." Kronos repeated, savoring the sound of the name, enjoying the thrill of anticipation as he prepared to win this man over. "You fight well," he complimented. Then he smiled and gestured to the sword the other Immortal held. "But you fight with my sword."

Methos' head moved a fraction of an inch, enough for Kronos to tell he was aware as Silas positioned himself nearer. Wary of a trap, Methos glanced over the surroundings.

Kronos could see the agile mind working on a plan of escape, but Kronos had plans of his own.

"Where would you go?" he said, carefully gauging the effect his words were having. "You are a stranger here; you know not the land and you have no weapons…except for mine. Alone and unable to find your way home, you will be easy prey for many in these parts."

Methos looked faintly worried, but unconvinced.

"Look around you," Kronos demanded, gesturing to harsh lands beyond the oasis. "There is _nothing_ out there for three days ride; no water, no food, no settlements. If you try to make it on your own — on foot — you will die." He paused, then added dramatically, "Or worse…if you are taken again by the likes of these."

Inching closer to Methos, he continued, his voice persuasive, coaxing. "And where would you go? Back to your home? Could you even find your way back? Even if you did, they saw you die, didn't they? You can't go back; your only choice is to stay, and make a new life here…with us."

Kronos could feel the intensity of the suspicion in Methos' gaze as the barbarian stared hard at him. He returned the bold look, using the whole force of his personality to persuade a man who truly was a prize. Clever, deadly, intelligent — a skilled fighter with a face as fair as any man's and possessed of a body that made Kronos' mouth water. Kronos desperately wanted this man at his side and under his control.

"Ride with us, Methos," he hissed. "No longer will you need to fear others or suffer hunger and thirst. We go where we choose and take what we want!"

He watched as Methos lifted his head to stare longingly at the horizon. A deep breath swayed the too–thin body and Kronos realized how debilitated the man actually was, despite the fierce fighting he had just done. It was thrilling to think of how formidable Methos would become once he was rested and cared for — and what it would mean to have a man like that riding to his right while Silas took his left. That he had come upon Methos weakened, lost and alone was fortunate and he was grateful, for it left Methos susceptible to what Kronos had to offer him — Methos needed Kronos as much as Kronos wanted Methos.

"I offer you my strength, my protection and a place for you to belong. In return, I will take your loyalty, your obedience and," Kronos let his eyes roam possessively over the naked form before he continued, "…your body when I desire it."

Methos barely reacted to the inclusion of sex into the deal. Kronos knew he was bargaining from a position of strength and that this Immortal was smart enough to realize he had no choice in the matter; Methos had to either agree willingly, or refuse and fight — a battle he was sure to lose. Kronos knew where the real risks lay with this one; lie to Methos, and the man would forever doubt. But give him the truth, no matter how unpleasant, and Methos would accept it as the gift it was. Kronos sighed; truth was a heady weapon, indeed.

"Together, we will take what we want; no one will be able to stand against us — mortal or Immortal. All will fear us; think on that!"

Kronos slowly held his hand out and looked deep into Methos' eyes until he touched his very soul. "We are alike, you and I. We belong together. Join us," he urged.

It worked. Kronos watched in triumph as Methos melted under the hot onslaught of Kronos' will, surrendering to a stronger personality. Slowly, hesitantly, as if in a trance, Methos reversed the sword and placed the hilt in Kronos' hand.

The sweet victory was nearly too painful to bear. The eternal conqueror, Kronos gripped the sword firmly and smiled, angling the point towards Methos' heart. He watched as the other's eyes widened, Methos' suddenly horrified gaze switching from the deadly blade to stare stricken at Kronos himself. The enormity of what he had done in giving away the only weapon he had — and with it his life — hit Methos with visible force and he seemed to shrink in upon himself. Obviously unnerved, he took in one deep, shuddering breath as he waited to discover the magnitude of his mistake…and what would now become of him.

It was a moment of pure brilliance and it sliced ecstatically through Kronos. He had actually convinced a man who had been repeatedly tortured to death to give up his only weapon and place his life in Kronos' hands. The sheer power he felt was a deep intense ache and his groin throbbed in accord, his testicles tightening. He wanted to leap upon Methos, take him violently, sealing the bargain with Methos' complete submission, but he restrained himself. First he needed to secure this man to him. Once that was done, his only limits would be his imagination and inclinations. "This," he said with a nod to the weapon, "is not for you." Decisively, he slid the sword home in its sheath.

Stepping up to the dazed man, he gripped his upper arms. "You chose wisely, Methos. Now you will have brothers who fight for you, protecting you as you will protect them."

He turned slightly and held out his hand towards Silas. "Come, Silas, meet your new brother."

The big man strode forward, his face open and smiling. Ever dependable, Silas was as devoid of deception as the desert was of trees. "Brother!" the deep voice rumbled with pleasure. "Welcome!" He clasped Methos' hand enthusiastically.

Methos shied slightly away from Silas' rather overwhelming presence, causing him to lean unintentionally into Kronos. Strangely pleased, Kronos reassured him. "You have nothing to fear, Methos. You must learn to trust us." The small jeweled dagger he favored was suddenly in his hand. "And the first lesson starts now."

Startled, Methos tried to duck away, but Silas still had hold of his left hand while Kronos gripped his upper arm on the right. "No!" His refusal was emphatic.

Kronos held up a warning finger. "Trust," he commanded, holding Methos' gaze with the sheer force of his personality. "And obedience. You _will_ hold still, do you understand?" There was no mistaking the implied threat in his tone.

There was a long pause, then Methos finally gave a sharp nod.

Kronos smiled. Now, while the command was freshest, was the time to put Methos to his hardest test; knife to throat, Kronos would make him face what he feared. Then he would understand the absolute power and purpose of his new leader. "Good. Do not disappoint me," he warned.

Letting go of Methos' arm, he laid his palm against the angular jaw. Pushing firmly against the reluctant man, he lifted and turned Methos' head, exposing the neck. "Stay," he ordered, as he brought up the blade.

Unable to hide his anxiety, Methos' eyes were wide as they tried to follow Kronos' hands and the knife they held.

Kronos hesitated only briefly this time before he worked his fingers under the heavy leather collar. Swiftly, he set the edge of the dagger against it and began to saw at the bindings. Finally understanding, Methos relaxed and Kronos was not surprised when Methos actually shifted slightly of his own volition, arching his head back to give Kronos a better angle to work with.

When the restraint finally fell away, Methos lifted his hand and massaged the flesh, pausing to scratch an area beneath an ear. He groaned at the simple pleasure. It was a sound that Kronos eagerly noted, vowing to himself he would get the man to repeat it later — under more intimate circumstances.

Kronos held out his hand. "Your arm now," he requested.

There was no hesitation as Methos gave him his arm, rotating it so the lacings were exposed. Kronos worked quickly, but carefully, and soon both forearms were free. Squatting down, he set to work at the leggings, not bothering to hide his long appraisal of Methos' groin, then later his ass as he freed the second leg. Kronos felt his own cock grow warm and twitch in its eagerness to explore the temptingly fresh territory so enticingly near.

When he stood, Methos stared warily at him, but Kronos merely smiled, his eyes glinting with anticipation. "Later," he promised.

Turning to Silas, Kronos happily clapped him on the shoulder. "Help him wash, Brother," he said jovially. "Make sure he is cleaned of all the marks those scum left on him. Leave nothing to remind him of his past, for his life starts new here today. I am off to search the tents."

* * * * *

When Kronos returned with his arms laden with goods, he paused and watched his two companions. Hands full of sand, Silas scrubbed Methos' back as Methos worked at a stubborn stain the leather restraint had left on his leg. Silas stopped long enough to pull another bucket of water from the well. He held it over Methos, letting the water slowly pour out, cleansing the dirt and filth from him. It gave Kronos great satisfaction to see the easy rapport the two had already established.

Stopping before the well, Kronos tossed down a roll of light brown clothing. "These should fit well enough, Brother. They are not stained with blood, but you would do well to wash the vermin out of them." When Methos nodded his understanding to him, he added, "And I've found food and wine. Come and join me when you are finished." Again, Methos wordlessly acknowledged Kronos' direction.

Kronos frowned at the man's continued silence; he would change that, too, before the night was over.

It was dusk before Silas and Methos had finished. Kronos, using the poles from the now–abandoned tents, had a good sized fire going. The coverings from one of the tents lay on the ground, supplying a smooth surface for his camp; the food and wine skins were piled to one side.

Methos, his new clothes wet and spread out on a bush to dry, was still naked. He settled between the food and the fire. Legs crossed in front of him, he chose a big slice of goat meat, some cheese and a handful of dates.

Silas walked past him, grabbed a wine skin and as much meat and fruit as he could carry before he retreated to a distant corner of the campsite.

Methos watched him go, then turned a sharp, suspicious look on Kronos as he realised that Silas had purposely removed himself from their vicinity.

Kronos slowly smiled at the astute observation. "Eat first," he advised. "You look starved."

Methos applied himself to the food, glancing uneasily towards Kronos occasionally. And every time he looked at Kronos, Kronos was there, staring back at him.

Knowing that the intent observation was unnerving Methos, Kronos finally spoke, breaking the growing tension. "You don't say much, do you?"

Methos swallowed his food before he spoke. "No."

Kronos eyed the strangely marked body. "What is that on your skin? Why doesn't it wash off?"

Methos shrugged. "Woad. Stayed long time," he agreed. He stared off towards the chieftain's tent, his expression distant. "Maybe…many deaths did this," he offered, his voice tight.

Kronos was thoughtful. It was apparent that Methos understood the language far better than he spoke it, though to be fair, he probably had very little opportunity to practice. His theory that his frequent killings had somehow preserved the skin dye made as much sense as anything else. It made an interesting effect, but Kronos wondered if it was permanent or if it would dissipate now that the effect of constant immortal healing would be gone.

Deciding to let the man finish his meal in peace, Kronos called to Silas and gave him his orders for the morning. A complete search of the camp was in order; weapons, gems and spices had the highest priorities, along with non–perishable foodstuffs and more wine. Silas was talkative though, and when their conversation finally died, Kronos saw that Methos had lain down on his side, his face towards the fire. Kronos had the sudden insight that his captors had probably left Methos without the comfort of a fire, not bothering to waste wood to provide warmth for a man that couldn't die of the cold; or more to the point, it didn't matter if he did die, as they knew he would revive. Nights in the desert during the winter were notoriously deadly and he wondered just how many times Methos had died from the cold, alone in the darkness. Something like that could leave a profound impact on a man…and it was the sort of information that could come in very handy in the future.

As he considered Methos, the sight of such an available and accessible body stirred his own; now was the time to complete their alliance by taking all Methos had left. If it was done right, this man's loyalty would be tied forever to Kronos by the twin bindings of pleasure and fear — and there wasn't much on earth that could try such bonds. Unwilling to delay any longer, Kronos pulled off his boots and got up. He walked over and stood at Methos' feet, waiting until the dispassionate hazel eyes were focused on him. Slipping off his shirt, he tossed it to the ground before he loosened the drawstring on his trousers. The garment fell in a soft pile around his feet and he stepped free of it. He watched as Methos' eyes traveled slowly over his muscular body, lingering on his lengthening erection. The light of the fire flickered over both of them, bringing warm tones to their skin and plunging the hollows of their bodies into soft darkness.

Kronos took a step forward until he towered over Methos, taking in all the details of the lean form. "It is time," he announced abruptly.

Methos' mouth tightened until his lips all but disappeared. With surprising feline grace, he fluidly raised himself to his knees and reached for Kronos' cock.

But Kronos took a quick step back. "I think not," he gently chided. "Especially after what you did to the last man who took his pleasure of you in that way."

The reaction obviously pleased Methos. With a small smile, he turned and laid himself flat out on his stomach, spreading his legs wide.

Kronos stared hungrily at what was offered, but decided he didn't care for the terms. He gave Methos credit for attempting to wield some control in the proceedings, even if it was only to influence how he would be fucked — it was still a start to exert some control over Kronos. Trouble was, that was the very thing that Kronos would never let happen. No one controlled Kronos.

He knelt down, settling himself beside Methos, letting his hands trace up the smooth back as he had done earlier that day. When he reached the still–damp hair, he took a thick handful and pulled, twisting Methos' head about until the face was angled towards him.

"If you think this is all I want of you, you would be wrong. I want your body _and_ your soul," he said gripping the hair and painfully drawing the head back. Methos' mouth opened as he cried out and Kronos captured it in a kiss, plundering the soft sweetness as he pressed aggressively against Methos, nudging the slighter man onto his side. And if Methos did not respond to the kiss, he did not resist it, either.

Letting go of his hair, Kronos moved his hand down, over the bony ribs and lower. He was sucking at Methos' tongue when his caress paused to rub the flat abdomen in slow, hard circles. As his hand dived lower still to grasp the flaccid cock, he ended the kiss. He stared into Methos' eyes as he sensually stroked and massaged him. "How long has it been since anyone pleasured you, Brother?" he said as he pulled on the sensitive organ.

Methos tensed at the sensation and stared back at Kronos, his expression bewildered. Kronos' unexpected actions had thrown him off–balance, his confusion leaving him more vulnerable.

Kronos chuckled. "Too long, I think," he said, bending his head to kiss that lovely, long neck just below the ear. He continued to kiss and nibble and suck, all the while applying firm strokes to Methos' cock. It was not long at all before he heard a low moan come from deep within Methos and felt the soft flesh he had been manipulating fill with life and strength.

"Yes!" Kronos growled, as Methos slowly relaxed. Hesitantly, Methos allowed himself to be rolled onto his back, his bent leg falling away, totally exposing himself to the man who now lay on top of him.

"You've missed this, haven't you?" Kronos asked, flexing his hips and rubbing his own erection against the other man's thigh and hip.

Kronos knew what captivity was like; the unbearable thirst, the constant, gnawing hunger. He could see the fresh effects of these on Methos in the way his skin stretched tightly over his bones and how he had drunk and drunk at the well until he threw up…and then drunk some more. This man had suffered endless agonies for months, but watching the silent, shivering form, Kronos saw clearly that this man craved something else even more. Taken from his people, tormented by foreigners in an unmerciful land, he had been completely alone — no succor, no friend. Methos hungered more for this comforting touch than he had for a loaf of bread. Kronos could see the truth of this now in the desperate need that shone from Methos' eyes and in the way he opened himself to Kronos. The former captive had been prepared for force and pain; not expecting kindness, he found himself helpless to resist the soft touches and kisses of Kronos' calculated advances.

Kronos slid back and forth against the taut body beneath him, enjoying Methos' increasingly frantic expression. He kissed him again, but still Methos had not surrendered enough to participate.

Staring confidently into Methos' eyes, Kronos grinned. "I know what you want," he murmured, amused because he knew he had Methos so confounded the other man hadn't a clue want he wanted. "You want me to kiss you…." he said, pressing his lips over one eye, "here." Mouth opened, he dragged his lips and tongue wetly down the side of his face, using his teeth in sharp counterpoint when he encountered the soft, unprotected throat. "And here…." he continued, pausing to nip sharply before he soothed the skin with another kiss.

Levering himself up on his hands and knees, he laved his way to a nipple. "And here…." he said, sucking the nub completely into his mouth. He used his tongue to trap the flesh firmly against his teeth and then slowly pulled back, stretching the sensitive nipple while raking it painfully.

Methos jerked at the intense mixture of pain and pleasure and suppressed a gasp.

Encouraged, Kronos moved over to the other nipple. Less delicate this time, he caught it between his teeth and pulled, shaking his head back and forth, causing Methos to arch and cry out.

"That's right; let yourself go," Kronos urged as he backed up, eyeing Methos' straining erection. Tired of playing, he gripped the base; Methos was more than ready. He engulfed the organ and, sucking hard, moved his head up and down. There was no finesse to his technique, just the infliction of brutal, unignorable sensation.

Unable to withstand such an onslaught, Methos curled around Kronos, his hands finally signaling his acceptance as they came to rest on Kronos' head. Another half a dozen pulls and it was all over. Methos spasmed, crying out as each contraction spurted his essence into Kronos' mouth and still Kronos sucked, pulling even more from him. Completely spent, Methos collapsed and lay unmoving, his breath uneven and ragged.

Kronos sat back on his heels and eyed the stunned man with satisfaction. Leaning down, he gripped the slender ankles and pulled, dragging Methos closer to him. He lifted and shifted the unresisting man until Methos' legs rested on Kronos' shoulders. Getting to his knees, he leaned forward until Methos was curled over, his ass fully exposed. Kronos brought his palm to his mouth and spat out Methos' seed, wasting no time as he slicked himself up. Inching forward a bit more, he pressed two moist fingers into Methos. They glided in wetly, and he twisted them about, spreading and relaxing the tight opening.

Satisfied that he was wet enough to avoid hurting himself, Kronos clutched his own erection and pressed it against Methos, giving himself extra support while his cock pushed through the resistance. He felt the man beneath him tense, the thighs hardening against his chest. He leaned over more, letting his own body weight supply the extra force needed to breach Methos' defenses. Suddenly, he was in all the way. Methos grunted painfully, but Kronos didn't care. The passage was hot and tight and Kronos moaned in sheer pleasure.

Unable to keep his balance, Kronos set his hands to either side of Methos' shoulders. Folding the other man in half, he flexed his hips a few times to test the positionings. It was perfect; he was well braced and Methos was helplessly pliant beneath him. Now he would indulge his need to see Methos completely submissive to him.

Hovering a few inches above his captive, Kronos stared Methos in the eye. "What is my name?" he growled, as he began his long, hard strokes, sinking deeply in with each push.

Methos stared at him, uncomprehending.

Kronos shifted again. This time he placed his hands on Methos shoulders, letting most of his weight pin the man painfully to the ground. He dug his fingers into the joints. "What is my name!" he repeated, punctuating the words with a particularly hard thrust.

"Kronos!" Methos whispered, confused.

Kronos smiled, but there was no humor in the expression and he continued the powerful thrusts. "And who do you owe your loyalty and obedience? And say it louder this time."

"You," Methos answered quickly, but Kronos scowled and tightened his grip on Methos' shoulders. "You, Kronos," the trapped Immortal rushed to add.

The power of the moment was intense and Kronos groaned. He started pumping with short, hard strokes. "That's right," he gasped, feeling his face flush hot with his exertions. He shifted, coiling his body tighter as he increased his rhythm even more. When he was almost there, he finally gritted out, barely in control, "And who _owns_ you now?!"

Methos stared up at him, looking alarmed, overwhelmed by the unbeatable combination of pleasure and fear. "You do, Kronos." The fervent words pushed Kronos over the edge. With a final brutal thrust, Kronos threw back his head and screamed as he came. He gripped Methos hard, shoving himself deeper as his seed pulsed into the slender body, claiming the man as his territory in the age–old fashion.

He collapsed onto Methos, the added weight causing the slighter man to grunt painfully. Methos accepted it for a few moments, but then he started to squirm. Kronos panted and grinned at him, enjoying the prolonged pose. "You're mine, now," he declared simply — possessively — inordinately pleased with himself. But then his expression hardened and he warned, "Don't ever forget it."

Methos froze, then shook his head. Plainly, he thought it was highly unlikely he could ever forget it.

"That's a good boy," Kronos said, finally straightening up, releasing Methos. He watched as the other Immortal slowly unwound himself while keeping a cautious eye on him. That was as it should be; all who served Kronos should be completely in synch with him, taking their cues from his slightest whim or mood.

Kronos stood and stretched; he hadn't enjoyed a fuck like that in ages! It certainly did bode well for his future relationship with Methos. Satisfied, he strode off to the well to clean himself.

* * * * *

Later that night, Kronos awoke. He lay still, listening for what had disturbed him, but heard only silence. The night had become quite chilly and he was glad for his cloak. Then he heard a slight sound — a distressed muttering in a strange tongue coming from Methos. He was not surprised; if anyone had a right to bad dreams it would certainly be Methos. Well, time would take care of that.

Deciding to ignore him, Kronos had nearly fallen back to sleep when he heard Silas sit up. He glanced over at his long–time companion and could see his troubled face staring back in the soft light of the dying campfire. Kronos knew what Silas was asking; words weren't always necessary between them for they had traveled together a very long time and knew each other extremely well. He nodded; if Silas wanted to deal with Methos, he was welcome to him.

The big man stood up, and wrapping his cloak about himself, walked up to the fire. He stood there for a few minutes adding wood to the embers, encouraging it back to life while being uncharacteristically noisy. Finally, Kronos could tell Methos had awakened.

Silas nodded to him. "It is a cold night, is it not, Brother?"

Methos sat up and hunched towards the fire. Even from a distance, Kronos could see shivers course over the gaunt form.

Silas frowned and tried again. "I have a warm cloak, but still I am cold; I think you are cold, too."

Kronos watched with interest and could see the wary way Methos stared at Silas. He could also see Methos _was_ cold; he sat curled up, knees to his chest and both arms sandwiched between those long legs.

Apparently encouraged by the lack of resistance, Silas persisted. "You have a good place by the fire; I would lie down with you to share our warmth. With my cloak and your fire, we could both be warm."

Curious, Kronos strained to catch the barbarian's reaction and barely saw the slight nod Methos gave. Silas wasted no time in settling himself behind Methos, pulling him close, fitting Methos' back tight against his chest. With a practiced twist, he had flipped his cloak to cover them both. Settling their heads together, he curled his massive arm around the thin frame.

Kronos smiled to himself, knowing that Methos was probably tense, wondering when Silas' hands would begin to wander. Too bad Methos would lose sleep over it, for Silas knew better than to poach from Kronos, particularly when the object of interest was new. No, all that would happen is that both men would sleep warmer and maybe Methos would miss riding another nightmare.

* * * * *

When morning came, both Silas and Methos looked relaxed and well– rested. With the beginnings of an easy familiarity, the threesome ate and tended to the mundane chores of camp. Methos had dressed in his now dry clothes and Kronos could see he had chosen well. They were of a proper length for Methos, but they hung loosely on him; regular meals, activity and time would help to fill them out.

With the three of them working together, it did not take long to thoroughly search the camp. Food was collected and packed, waterbags filled and the few remaining wineskins piled on top. By unspoken agreement, they worked quickly, anxious to leave before the smell of the dead became too powerful.

Among the goods gathered together, Methos paused the longest at a pile of crude weapons. He carefully inspected and tested each one until he had chosen the three most serviceable: a longish sword whose blade had the fewest nicks, a surprisingly good quality dagger, and a short knife for meals. Picking through the other items scattered about, he chose a wide, leather belt, a heavy, hooded cloak and a pair of fine leather boots Kronos had seen on the chieftain himself.

Silas readied the horses, pausing to free a few goats that were tethered to a tree. Kronos watched indulgently; he was well aware of Silas' soft spot for animals. Kronos knew his friend would adopt Methos, supplying him with all the care the weakened man would need. He observed now as the big Immortal pressed a water skin onto Methos and he smiled. Already he could see the beginnings of a friendship between the two of them.

When all was done, Kronos and Silas mounted up, placing the rest of the provisions in careful balance across their horses as Methos handed them up.

When it was clear that Methos was intending to ride double with Silas, Kronos guided his horse over until its shoulder bumped Methos' back.

Methos glanced up at Kronos, then did a double take at the stern expression he saw there. Carefully, he turned to face his new leader, his attitude one of extreme attentiveness.

Kronos extended his arm down in invitation. "You ride with me, I think."

For the second time in as many days, Methos gripped the offered arm and allowed Kronos to pull him up. He settled himself, having no option but to sit snugly behind Kronos, letting his hands rest on the other man's hips.

Kronos enjoyed the feeling of Methos pressed tightly behind him. "This day promises to give us a pleasurable ride, eh, Methos?"

"Yes, Kronos."

The fast answer amused Kronos and he laughed out loud. "You are the quick one, aren't you? Well, as pleasant as this will be, we shall have to find you your own horse soon. What sort of creature would you like?" He was feeling very generous.

"A fast one," came the dry reply.

Kronos laughed again. "And so you shall." Then he turned and favored Methos with a penetrating look. "But he will never be as fast as mine. Remember that always, Brother."

END

**Author's Note:**

> This was probably published in a zine, but I've forgotten which one.


End file.
